


Don't Let It Break Your Heart

by MrBalkanophile



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, M/M, Slash, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-03
Updated: 2012-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-28 20:02:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/311660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrBalkanophile/pseuds/MrBalkanophile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Bojan Krkić has closed his eyes as well as his heart when he arrived in Rome. Love knocked many times stubbornly.<br/>José Mourinho has started playing another straightforward mindgame. Love made the first move, though.<br/>Josep Guardiola has realized his biggest error of his life. Love kept going, making his heart bleeding.<br/>Zlatan Ibrahimović has sworn to help his archenemy. Love asked him that promise, and he said 'yes'.<br/>Jose Ángel Valdés has wondered about his true feelings. Love explained him patiently.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Let It Break Your Heart

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know how much you're involved in the soap opera made up of national press specialized in both _Primera División_ and _Serie A_ (Spanish and Italian first tier leagues). At the moment I'm writing these notes, in the first days of November 2011, Zlatan is going to introduce his autobiography and he has already spoiled his hate for Guardiola and the Barça team lifestyle, and his respect for Mourinho; Bojan is still angry because he had to leave his team and he refused to speak about/against his former coach so far; Guardiola and Mourinho buried the hatchet after the street fight in the last _Clàsico_ ; and Jose Ángel keeps tweeting funny things on his account, mainly photos of him and Boji in various levels of nakedness. There are lots of mentions and hypotheses about what happened in the last two years, so, if anyone is interested, I made up a full references sheet at the end of the story.
> 
> This fic is my entry for [Hit The Showers Big Bang](http://hittheshowersbb.livejournal.com); you can download and listen the lovely mix [henpecked](http://henpecked.livejournal.com) made for me by going [here](http://www.multiupload.com/4B13OZSENL).
> 
>  **Additional warning:** Hints (not depicted, maybe even unworthy of a mention) of threesomes, foursomes, past underage relationships, kinky things.

**Disclaimer:** This is a work of fiction. I do not own them and I don't earn anything, except personal and others' amusement.

 

When your desires are shattered without mercy, you can't do anything but run away as far and as fast as you can, chasing the broken shards of those which once were your dreams and finding yourself to cut your flesh and your soul with them at once every time you manage to catch one.

Bojan doesn't like to lie, but he couldn't say the truth to anyone: Rome can't fulfill his aspirations and hardly will, but he knows how much words could hurt, and he just isn't ready to bear Roman people's hate, too.

He just had to run away.

Bojan has learnt quickly to reply to the dozens of call tries by his friends by texting, as he doesn't want to know further about the suspects of Leo, Geri and the others, and he's perfectly aware about the effects their voices would bring along: he cried a lot when he found Carles' voice in the last message of the responder, and it was just a week ago, so he still doesn't feel ready to do anything but sending batches of neutral-to-happy texts and mails to all of them, while he keeps ignoring their calls. An easy task even when Pedro tried to hide his number in a desperate attempt, as Roma staff always looks for him on another cellphone.

The only reaction Bojan has showed so far surfaces every time a very stubborn man tries to call him: every time he reads his name on the phone display, he can't believe he even has the guts to look for him and try to talk to him... about what? How pleasant Rome is? How different its streets and its traffic and its nights are? Or does he just want to say that he's sorry, that he misses Bojan at least as much as Bojan misses him, that he was wrong and he wants him to come back to Barça as soon as possible, that he wants to see him so badly, in Rome or wherever he wants?

"Stop calling me," Bojan whispers several times to the phone, almost on the verge of tears, but it keeps ringing at least twice before the lighting turns off. A text arrives a minute later, as usual, and as usual Bojan deletes it without even reading it. He breathes out, heavier than the last time, and he puts himself under the sheets, trying to get asleep. Traffic lights outside the hotel he's staying in never seem to fade away.

 

"This is what I meant." Pep lets the cellphone fall on the desk, making an unpleasant, loud sound and risking to break it. "E-mails, calls, TXTs, it's all the same: no replies at all in a month. He could be dead and I wouldn't know about that and I wouldn't have got a chance to apologize."

"He's not dead, he's fine."

Pep raises his eyebrow in a way that only he could find threatening. "Why did I even call for your help? I should have done the same with you, after what you did to Tito. I don’t even understand why did you bother to come."

"I didn't kill him either, you know... at least, not _yet_. You seem unsurprisingly distracted about your dear ones' health lately, aren't you?" José blatantly ignores the second death glare from Pep, smoothing down the fabric of his trousers with a careless gesture before he crosses his legs again. "As for your call, you perfectly know I can't resist if there's a damsel in distress to save."

"Shut up."

"As you wish." They spend at least ten minutes drowning in silence, then Pep curses and José grins just a heartbeat later.

"I'm not a damsel in distress," Pep says in a bitter and somewhat desperate tone that gives away the lie in his own words, "I'm just in trouble. In _a lot_ of trouble. I don't know what- I don't know _how_ to do what it has to be done."

"Aww, love is in the air. I'm aware there isn't a single idiot in the world willing to be your conscience, but don't you think you should have apologized to your Bojanito-"

"Don't call him like that."

"Huh? Did I just stumbled upon a pet name of yours?" José asks with a grin as his friend blushes.

"It just sounds a little too... _pervert_. I mean, you make it sound like that."

"Oh, that completely makes sense, just like that. Let's see, you seduced a boy from your _cantera_ – and he wasn't even of age, at that time – until you cooked up him enough to make him jump on you on the spot; you took his first kiss and you've been his first fuck and you tickled his first kinks as well, spicing up your snoggings a little more every time by trying to go as far as you both could, and I'm a _pervert_ if I remind you that you're a little older than the boy?"

Such a brutal and blatantly provoking summary of his last three years would have made Pep's face burn up in any case, but hearing it like that, told from a voice he always cared about a lot – a voice he probably knows better than any other one whispering or screaming or laughing in the whole Spain in this very moment – hurts even more; José says those words with no bitterness or resentful feelings, his tone is soft and definitely ironic as always, but it's a hard critique of the things Pep has done – and of the ones Pep has _not_ done. José's right. _As always_. And the realization doesn't bring just another wave of shame: desperation spreads fast through his body, strangling his throat and aching painfully.

"What should I do?"

"Wait."

"I can't wait."

"He doesn't want to talk to you now," José hesitates for a moment, as Pep has hidden his face behind his hands and, even if he's not making any sound, he's quite sure his friend doesn't want to show he's crying. "The boy feels betrayed and blames you for that, and he's probably right. Do you really want to risk to be cut out of his life for good? Because that's what's going to happen, if you keep looking for him in such an insistent way."

"What if I leave for Rome and-"

"It sounds reasonably worse than any of your last ideas."  Pep is speechless for a moment: he didn't hear José stand up from the armchair, neither he felt his presence so close to himself until the friend wrapped his arm around his shoulders; with a quick move he had to wipe away the ears under his fingers. "Just wait. Make sure the boy knows about you, and then wait for him. He's grown up enough, he has the right to choose, you owe it to him."

"I'm not even sure he has read my messages until now."

"I do agree. But I'm quite convinced he will not shoot on a messenger." José puts a finger on Pep's lips, as he already knows what he's going to say. "I'll take care of that, too."

"You will- wait." Pep can't see deep enough into José's eyes in order to fully understand what's going on in his 24/7-ticking mind. He understands enough from the smooth line of his grinning lips, though, and he's both hopeful and grateful: he knows he won't find anyone so close to help him to depart again, while he could just keep doing nothing at all and wait for Pep to fall into his grasp once more. Pep is sure he loves Bojan as his own life, but he's perfectly aware as well he was – he _is_ José's, because it’s always been this way, since ages before everything else. And the warm wave rising when he approaches to José and kisses him on the lips, rushing to taste his tongue as soon as surprise leaves for curiosity and careful expectation… isn't it love as well?

"You didn't have to," José whispers, taking a quick breath of the air between them. "I didn't ask for compensation."

"Don't you want me?"

"Do I even have to answer this?" José kisses him with no hesitation or claim to play it safe, holding him in one of the most tender hugs Pep can ever recall. "I just don't think it would be fair, after our discussion."

"Do you think I'm a perv if I want you to fuck me right now, then?"

"Of course I do," José grins against Pep's lips, "I made you in my own image."

 

When he was younger, loneliness was never an issue for Zlatan, as he always walked on a neverending road a few people knew, and, as the years passed by, no one could keep up his pace. He was somewhat happy, rather than uncomplaining, because the steps on that unknown and mysterious track familiar to him only were natural and instinctive.

Helena never tried to chase him, as a matter of fact; he bumped into her so many years ago that he learnt to slow his pace enough to let her take him by the hand, without even noticing it; everyday fights and challenges still urged him to run, run down that track with all his strength, shouldering and kicking his way until the very end.

José has been different. José forced Zlatan to stop and say "Yes" without asking "Why?", since the very first moment – a scorching day of mid July and a glare that made Zlatan feel like he was tearing up his kit with bare hands. His body said "Yes" even before his lips did, and José looked at him with a questioning, yet curious and amused glance; then, José started to walk beside him without any permission, keeping his fast pace with ease for a while, until Zlatan sprinted and ran alone forward.

He was scared. He feared to end his career with none of the trophies he dreamt of in his showcase, sure, but he was still frightened to death by the power José had on him. But José didn’t chase him – he waited for his first uncertainty, his first weakness in a life which knew no weak spots, and he let Zlatan know he was still behind him, on the same route, just a little far from him. José would have waited for all the time Zlatan needed, but Zlatan couldn't wait any longer anymore, and he said _yes_ again without questioning.

Since that day, a year and a half before, Zlatan can feel loneliness as something more disturbing than an acceptable state of mind. _You awake?_ he writes quickly on his phone in the middle of the night, with no reason at all since José called him just yesterday and they both don’t like being tormented: so he feels happy in a totally childish way when his replies come less than a minute later.

 _Can't you see I'm sleeping?_ the first text says, and then: _I was thinking about you_ flashes on the display. Zlatan's grin widens as he adds a winking smile on his new text, at the end of the line.

 _Tomorrow night? ;)_

 _I need your help. There's something you can do for me._

 _Anything. Can I call you?_ Zlatan's quite sure José's not alone, for he's aware about his hate for texts; he can't ignore the sting of jealousy, poisonous and waist-high, as well as the incomprehensible shiver of pleasure which shakes his spine by just figuring José's body lingering with a faceless shadow. He has always been scared by how much easily he could accept the idea of José fucking someone else, in the aching, unbearable intervals between a meet and the following. Neither he can understand why he never did the same, even if José often invited him to do so.

This time, José's reply comes later than the previous ones.

 _I'd prefer not. Need you to meet someone. Deal?_

Zlatan frowns by instinct – Helena is always very busy to remind him that he cannot do that anymore, if he doesn’t want to change his forehead in a stretch of wrinkles. _Someone?_

 _I'll tell you tomorrow night._

Jealousy boils off, while pleasure shakes him again, stronger and for longer than before. As he suddenly turned sixteen again, Zlatan slips his hand in the shorts. _Again_.

 

Bojan should have moved in a flat as soon as he had a chance.

He's considering the idea since he called Jose a couple of hours later than the time he tried to go to bed, asking him for hospitality "as traffic outside my hotel is unbearable". It's a lie as innocent as the _hundreds_ he said in the last weeks, and still it adds its weight on his heart, but he couldn't say any bits of truth, not even to a friend, a teammate and the boy he knows better in Rome. Bojan shared many experiences with Jose when they were at Barça and at Gijon respectively, competitiveness and respect soon left for a good friendship, and they were used to share the bedroom at the training camp of the juniores national team: Jose's a nice person, he's a listener, he likes to have fun with some friends, he's one of the best teammates and friends Bojan had outside the enclosed, almost unreal Catalan environment and, moreover, he's the first one Bojan could think about when he needed to run from his claim for a new tormentless life in Rome just ten minutes ago.

Bojan doesn't know why Jose moved from Spain: Roma probably looked for his friend as soon as they entered into negotiations for himself when Pep said he wasn't unsaleable anymore; instead, he has to give credit to the Roman entourage for their patience, persistence and for trusting in them. He feels guilty when Jose brings him some sheets folded on the arm and a bottle of water in the other hand, as he thinks he didn't prove himself a good friend.

"I suppose you haven't changed your habits in these months" Jose says shyly, shaking the little bottle for a moment, and Bojan smiles and nods. "Are you sure you don't want to sleep in the bed?"

"I won't let you sleep on the couch in my place, Cote. It's fine, don't worry."

"It's large enough for the two of us." The loud, repeated sound of a horn blasts in the sudden silence between them. "... not a pun. I mean, we slept with Sergi and Martín on a king size in Vyborg, right? There would be more room now" Jose adds, uselessly trying not to blush.

"I haven't changed my habits in these months" Bojan smirks, half-surprised because he can't even recall when he joked last: it seems a very long time for sure. "I could molest you in the night." Jose blushes even more, seeming not able to reply, and he adds: "Only if it doesn't bother you."

"I swear it"  Jose says, taking back the sheets and water: he's saying the truth, but neither him or Bojan could say how much.

 

When Pep opens his eyes again, it's still dark outside – clock says it's still a quarter to five – and José's not there anymore. Pep can still feel his smell in the room impregnate his own skin and pierce his soul, although, and he needs just a blink to recall once again their night together; arousal awakes his body as well as his mind, but he doesn't do anything but lying naked and excited on the bed, his legs still wrapped in a fastidious sheet.

For how much José's strokes, or his presence, or just thinking about him can have such a shattering effect on Pep, he can't ignore his mind was devoted to Bojan only even in his climax, he can't ignore he whispered his name on José's smiling lips, he pleased the friend thinking about how Bojan used to do the same with him, he splayed his legs and rose his hips as... as Bojan did. As Pep taught to him in nights filled of laughter, experiments and endless talking.

After realizing that sleep won’t come again, Pep sighs and stretches out his limbs, trying to give a meaning to the images filling his mind: shaming pleas, the bitter taste of his tongue, tender words, mild rubbing of his aching back, and José writing texts on his phone – a mean he mainly uses just for platitudes and when he wants to drive the press mad. With another regretting sigh, he hangs around the room for a while, then he goes straight for a shower: another workday will start in three hours, and he isn’t lucky as José this time, as schedule will force Barça to enjoy half a day of rest less than Real.

 

 _Those heavenly regrets  
Still on me though  
Trying to catch a cannonball  
And so burning tired_

 

"Come on, spill the beans."

"Mmm, no," José whispers, starting to kiss the soft skin on Zlatan's neck and enjoying the warm stroke of his large hands on his shoulders: they both are almost still, as they were still having sex, except for Zlatan's legs that aren't folded against José's body anymore, but lie close to his hips, tired and languishing as the rest of his body is. They are always afraid and unwilling to break the spell with an uncomfortable word or thought, caring about each other's serenity at least in the moments they spend together (mostly by fucking, but that's imputable to desire that seems even growing, despite distance and time).

"Come on. You stay here for the night, don't you?" José nods quietly. "We have time for a second round, then. And a third. And-"

"Some respect for older people, you moron" José mutters. Zlatan laughs softly. "I have to meet someone in Rome. I want you to meet him in my place."

"Any motivation for such an absurd request?"

"If any journalist spots me in Rome, every single newspaper, magazine, website and TV show in the world will speculate about my desire to come back to Italy and train one of the Romans, or – even worse – they'll think I'm going to make pressure on them in order to bring De Rossi or Borriello to Madrid. Not that this would ever happen in the next twenty years."

"What about they spot me?"

"They've been endlessly pretending you've been sold to every single top team in Europe in the last two years, I'm sure that some gossip about that wouldn't hurt you and your team as much as would damage mine. Plus, you know quite well whom I have to meet."

"Huh?"

"Krkić."

Zlatan resists to the urge to frown just because José chooses that moment to free himself from the grasp of his legs and roll on his right, close to him but not enough to distract his mind in that resounding way. "He will never come to Madrid."

"That's not my intention. You have to talk with him, as neither I or Pep could."

"... tell me it's not about what I'm thinking."

José gently slaps his thigh. "They broke up a month ago. The boy doesn't reply to anyone among his friends and keeps ignoring Pep and what he wants to say to him to apologize. He needs your help."

"You're kidding." Zlatan looks in his eyes directly – a great mistake, as they never change. "You're not kidding, you're _out of your mind_."

"You said you would have done _anything_."

"Well, I meant _for you_. I didn't include Guardiola in the people I'd have been glad to help." Zlatan keeps walking back and forth from the bed to the table with the remnants of their dinner; he's offended and enraged and he's still naked and sweaty, and even if his steps are swinging and quite far from the mighty elegance of his strides on the pitch, he's surprisingly one of the sexiest things José's ever seen in forty-eight years. "I don't know what to do" he says, reluctantly.

"What about what I just asked to you?"

"It's not that easy, okay? Damn," he curses, throwing himself again on the bed, his arms folded under the head, "I hoped so much you weren't fucking him, among all the ones you could."

"Jealous?" Zlatan's heavy breath looks more sincere than any answer to him. "You don't have to."

"I know. It's more difficult than I thought."

"Mmm." José turns on his side and puts a leg against his. "Trying to understand you is always one of the most challenging quests I had to face."

"Promise you don't laugh?"

José nods slowly, breathing against Zlatan's ear – an affection he indulges in most of the time. Zlatan sighs.

"Maybe I... I'm not sure I'm disliking the idea at the moment."

"What idea? Look for Bojan and make him return into Pep's sheets?"

"Yeah. It would help to move him away from you." Zlatan laughs, bitterness in his tone. "Never mind. I'll go. I'd go to Hell, if you asked me."

It's José's turn to sigh, now. "Quit romantic tragedy at once. I've already said it, you don't have to be jealous of Pep." He kisses Zlatan's burning cheek. "Just... just don't make me choose one after another. You can understand better than other people, I'm not your one love. But I love you, mh? Doesn't matter what city will be your home or what kit you will have on tomorrow or in ten years. As long as you love me, it will be perfect."

"I know. _I know_ , José."

"What's the problem, then? Hell, I can't understand at all what's your problem with me and Pep, and..." José brushes again his lips against his scorching skin, and suddenly his grin is so wide and triumphant that Zlatan is forced to move his gaze elsewhere, right on the friezes of the ceiling of their room. "Maybe it isn't a problem at all" he murmurs, tickling the tip of Zlatan's hard cock with his fingertips. "You should have told me way before today. It would have been an easier call last year, as you both were in the same city."

"Enough. I'm already ashamed of myself without your sarcasm."

"Why are you ashamed, gypsy? Fantasies are good... and harmless."

"I don't have any fantasy on Guardiola, his existence busts my balls as much as last month." He holds his breath every now and then again, as José's hand is touching him with more insistence and he already can't measure how much pleasure he can feel when it's him stroking his cock. "I'd kill him, but it's disturbingly exciting to think about you with him, that's all. And I'll kill _you_ if you ever try to drag me in a threesome" he adds with a withering glare to José's smirk.

"Mmm, funny... you've already played that game several times, for what I can recall."

"Shut up. It was different" Zlatan says, trying to defend his position as pleasure mounts.

"Right, it wasn't a threesome. Last time I checked, Mario and Davide were two different persons. That makes _four_."

"I'll make sure to hurt you a lot when I kill you" he mutters, his threat melting in a warm, liquid tone. "I don't wanna make out with Pep. Promise me."

"I'll send you a sex tape on mission accomplished, then" José replies and sticks out his tongue. Zlatan's moan is loud and dripping with desire.

 

"You've such a horrible face." Nicolás messes Bojan's hair gently, somewhat worried, and the boy resists to the urge of springing up and avoid the stroke.

"Nothing coffee can't heal." _Here it is, another lie_ , he thinks, discouraged. "I... I'm not sleeping that well at the hotel. I'll move at Jose's place this afternoon and I'll stay there for a while, until I find something nice, but I should make up fora lot in any case."

"Home sickness?" the man winks, and Bojan's face seems to morph into stone.

"At all" he replies, trying not to yell, but his shaking voice is suddenly cold and a little high-pitched, so every other approach by Nicolás gets totally discouraged. When the dining clerk serves him the coffee, in fact, Bojan's already alone again.

He returned to the hotel last night, as his hope was to overcome his fears and his need to run away until no one would have bothered him, but it's true he didn't sleep well: in fact, he didn't sleep _at all_ , and he spent half the night eating rusks, looking at the quiet display of his personal phone without using it and watching a couple of documentaries on the National Geographic Channel. He tried all but one of the emergency tricks to fall asleep he knew, in vain, and as usual he wasn't in the mood for self-pleasuring: anyway, memories of his nights with Pep didn't help him to relax and find some reliefby stroking himself.

For these reasons, asking Jose for hospitality for more than just one night as soon as he met him outside Trigoria that morning has been less difficult than Bojan thought: his friend seemed totally happy and excited to have someone to share his little flat with, and he even proposed Bojan to stay as long as he wishes, without looking for another place to live. _It could be nice_.

Maybe he could stop running, at least for a while.

With a sigh, he dials a number without even look at the phone keyboard: Geri answers in less than two seconds, roaring in joy, and Bojan's heart squeezes a little – not by fear, luckily.

 

Zlatan doesn't know what he should expect from Bojan: he's surprised for sure, however, when the boy runs toward him when he's still half a mile away from him, and when Bojan catches up with him he squeezes his hips with the joy and innocence of a much younger kid.

"Yeah, I'm happy to see ya, too," Zlatan breathes out, coughing once or twice to make him loosen his hug; ten minutes later they're both near a little table in a small café in Trigoria Alta, waiting for their coffees and brioches.

"You should have told me you were coming, I would have taken some time off. Why is Milan staff so permissive to you? It's Monday."

"What can I say? Zlatan takes what Zlatan wants," he smiles, lazily stirring his coffee. "As for your other question, I don't think you would have answered if I phoned you."

Bojan squints in a mistrustful and worried way and sits more straightly on the chair, waiting for an explanation: despite the excited welcome (as the Swede doesn't recall him what he left at Barça: he ran away before Bojan did), he never had a relationship with Zlatan other than being teammates for less than a year. "Someone has told you too much" he says cautiously after a moment, while Zlatan realizes he fucked up the mind game plotted carefully with José after three minutes of polite and joyful conversation.

"Okay, enough playing," Zlatan announces, somewhat relieved to face the problem his way. "I just carry a message."

"I can't _believe_ he called you, of all people," Bojan babbles, so quietly Zlatan can't even hear him at  first, then with a louder and angrier voice. "I can't believe it! He called the one who hates him the most and he convinced – no, wait, _how_ has he convinced you to come here and-"

"Guardiola hasn't enough guts to call me, and I wouldn't have accepted to help him if he did."

"Who convinced you?"

"None of your business, I guess."

"Well, save your breath. I won't come back to Barcelona, and I don't want to see him again."

"Enough, now pin your ears back." A shadow of his violent side shows up again and Bojan recognizes it immediately for what it is: he still can remember the last three months of Zlatan’s year in Barcelona, and he is scared today more than ever – in those days he feared, as most of the team, that Zlatan would have gone farer than squeezing lockers and wrecking everything else in the dressing room.

He feared Zlatan would have punched him just to hurt Pep in ways unfeasible through words or violence.

"Nothing would make me happier than give Guardiola the lesson he deserves for his philosophizing cowardice, battering him and leaving him half-dead on the pavement," Zlatan adds, kicking the pedestal of their table. "I swore I wouldn’t, and I’m not pleased of my promise to Zay but I’ll stand by what I said.

"... this Zay again. You called her almost every day when you were playing in Spain... you should love your wife much."

"Helena's not my wife." Zlatan's lips curve in a satanic grin. "And José would kill you if you call him a woman again if present."

At first, Bojan doesn't understand: for a terrified moment, he even thinks Zlatan's talking about Cote. Then, he realizes that secrets are always bigger than expected. "Oh, no."

"Oh, _yes_. He hasn't been my first man and he probably won't be the last, but I can say for sure he's the one and only I'd love."

"But you’ve escaped from Inter and then, after just a year in Barça, you've gone to Milan! How did they accept you in the team? How could you achieve such an infamous deed?"

"You don't want to know, trust me. And... do you think he would love you less, if you went to Real Madrid or Espanyol?"

Pep's name hasn't been pronounced since a while ago, but the message in that "he" is heavy and breath-taking. Bojan looks at the empty tray with a scowl, but he suddenly feels he can’t lie, not even by trying. "I guess we would have argued, but it wouldn’t have changed nothing, if we had still been dating."

"Nice. So, does it change if you live and play in Rome for a while... months, years, who knows? Would Pep love you less?"

"I don’t know and I don’t care. He treated me as a package."

"And you allowed him to do so. Come on, Guardiola still loves you – he knows, Zay knows, we both know. You're not a kid anymore, Bojan."

"Funny, because I feel like you speak to me like I was." Bojan stands up and almost spills the remaining coffee on the table and his trousers by bumping against the pedestal. "Thank you for coming, Zlatan, it has been a pleasure" he adds. They look into each other's eyes for a while, then Bojan runs away and Zlatan gives up chasing him almost instantly.

"It didn't work," he says five minutes later to a tired José, with a bitter tone which gets lost in the concern filling the room as an invisible poison.

"You cost me five hundred euros for this call out of hours. What's going on?"

"Boji's still mad to Pep and I let it slip that I knew about him not answering to the calls."

"The most useless spy in the world, at my service. I'll punish you."

Zlatan hardly holds back a shiver. "What should I do now?"

"Wait. We should wait for a couple of weeks, Bojan should accept the news first. _Slowly_. I'm not that sure he's ready to forgive Pep."

"Aha. What about me?"

"You'll wait for him in Milan as a lure for our trap. Study your schedule and tell me."

Zlatan wonders for almost a quarter. "In Milan... they'll come for the match against Inter in two or three weeks. But we play away the day after." He can feel it: José's grinning in his special way.

"Roma doesn't have to play on Thursday anymore."

"What about I call someone and tell them to stay in Milan after the match, I should-" Zlatan's speculations are cut off, as José turns off his phone. He can't help but grinning again, somewhat pleased.

 

That night, Bojan realizes how much Jose's caring for him. He can't get off his mind the way the friend looked at him when he finally arrived at the sports centre almost an hour later – a circumstance that appears even more unexplainable as they always leave together for Trigoria at least six days out of seven by sharing the car.

Not that morning.

Bojan asked Jose to leave him the car keys and left for Trigoria Alta, reassuring him he would come back by himself a bit later, pretending he needed to think about his situation alone. Bojan found worry in Jose's eyes, but the friend was respectful enough – or shy enough – to stay quiet and don't ask him anything about his lateness.

At least, it was what he was thinking until evening; Bojan isn't a great observer, so he gets aware what's going on in Jose's head – and in his most private parts – only as soon as he incautiously moves toward him in the bed.

"Sorry," Bojan says, withdrawing his knee in a quick gesture, his voice alarmed as his friend's moan seems more due to pain than pleasure. "Did I hurt you?"

"Not that much," he mutters, and then he can't say anything more until Bojan, consternated, climbs over his body in order to turn the night-lamp on, probably making the things worse. When the warm, feeble light fills the room, Bojan can finally see the ashamed look on Jose's face, and suddenly he acknowledges what's going on just under the friend's waist.

"... should I ask you why you got a bon- maybe not." Bojan sighs deeply, turns the light off again and comes back to his place in the bed. "I thought you weren't. Like. Well."

"I lied."

"Yeah, that seems _obvious_. Sorry, Cote, I don't want to mock on you, it's just..." Bojan lets another deep breath go. "It makes everything more complicated than it already was. Do you invited me here because-"

"No, _no_. I want you to stay here because we're friends, not because I want to... well, y'know. Not because I want us to be _more_ than friends," he admits, as Bojan stays still. "I mean, who doesn't want someone low-tempered to play to _PES_ and go out exploring the night with the same enjoyment?"

"Geri, I guess. He's gone completely mad... more than usual, you know, because Shakira doesn't like too much that he spends half his free nights with Cesc." He smiles instantly. "And Cesc, the same way 'round."

Jose can't help but laughing for a while, before facing Bojan in the dark and turning serious again. "I'm sorry you found it out this way. I never had enough courage."

"Since when?"

"... I realized it this summer in Denmark. Maybe. I guess. I knew you were dating someone – um, we played _Truth or Dare?_ before the game with Belarus, Sergi asked you. I felt jealous when you talked about him, but I thought I had no chance against another man you loved so much. So I didn’t call you for a while, hoping it would have been enough." 

Bojan doesn't reply, limiting himself to inhale Jose's warm breath. He didn't forget what Zlatan said that morning – and no one would bother to travel from Milan to Rome and back in half a day to bring a message like that, if that message wasn't a matter of the greatest importance. Still, he doesn't feel ready to hear Pep's voice, to let him apologize and try to fix what Pep broke and Bojan didn't care to save, to kiss him until being forced to gasp for breath.

His breath can't go as fast as his thoughts. _Zlatan has been thrown into the game. Zlatan is José's, he admitted it with no shame or hesitation, and he has to help Pep get in touch with me even if he doesn't want to and I don't want it_. At least Pep has been always truthful when talking about love, chemistry and sex: Pep taught him that feeling attracted by someone, even while dating someone else, isn't as wrong as other people could think, and that he would have been free to make out with anyone as long as both of them thought it wouldn't affect their relationship. And Pep had to _insist_ on that point, as Bojan trapped himself into his own denial until a day he came at the Ciudad for training, his face glowing red and his eyes unwillingly shining, and making him spill the beans a whisper after another about his steamy night with Gerard and Thierry had been one of the most powerful stimulants they ever felt in their blood. But he was a little drunk, and they were drunk as well, and it has been just once in more than three years.

So, while Jose's waiting two inch apart, trembling in expectation and strain, Bojan realizes at last what's going on at the other side of the Mediterranean sea, at least for a bit. He was already pretty sure Pep had sex in the last weeks, and now he knows whom he did with. _Mourinho_. Probably it isn't even a secret for the players of that game, and he suspected something like that when he was at home... no, when he was in Barcelona... but he never asked to Pep. He would have all the reasons to do so, maybe he would have liked it, too, but he didn't.

"Boji?" Jose whispers – he has backed off, at least for a little: Bojan supposes correctly there's a tone of bitter disappointment in his voice, but he has completely lost track of time while thinking so fast. So he smiles, realizing soon Jose cannot see him in the dark. "Are you asleep?"

"Not that much. I was... thinking." He puts a hand on Jose, just under his shoulder, and he can feel how much _hope_ fills the friend's body with just that gesture. "You know I'm a little... well, that we split up. For a while."

"I presumed so," he admits.

"So I can't make you promises."

"I know that, too."

Bojan wiggles for a while, until he finds himself near – much near – to him again. "You should have told me in Vyborg. We would have had fun."

"There were Sergi and Martín."

"Exactly." Bojan kisses him gently on the lips, opening them slightly as soon as surprise, shock and discomfort leave Jose's mind and body at once. His friend looks like he hasn't kissed much people. _I'll teach you the basis_.

 

 _When you're tired of waiting  
So you just find that you never had to stop  
Come on baby_

 

Bojan is happy. He's happy as he can't even remember since the things in Barcelona were going well – and he hasn't even thought about people and everything he left there. It would have been greater if they won at least a match, as neither cup or league matches seem to be much lucky, but he's playing often and he's not playing that shabby. _Results will come_ , he says at the end of every match, and a result has come for sure: Inter may not be the stronghold he faced in the nightmare of more than a year ago anymore, but it's still a team that deserves respect and caution. When the referee whistles the end of the match, Roma has gained an important point at home of a direct competitor for the cup spots, even if their playing style isn't still that good and fluid and successful.

At least, it seems enough to drive Daniele, Nicolás and Marco to claim for some party.

" _Hollywood_ night!" Marco bursts in the middle of the joyful chaos of the locker-room, and at least half a dozen of them nod and yell at the proposal. Bojan is tempted to join the crowd, for a change, but Jose's at home in Rome, unable to take part to the trip because of his disqualification in the last, awful match against Cagliari, and he feels a little guilty to think about having fun without him.

Then, Nico drags him by the arm and raises his unwilling hand up into air, and everyone laughs and yells again; Bojan doesn't complain of being forced to a choice until the end of the night, when his teammates are as tipsy as him, Marco's dancing half naked with a group of strangers, and Zlatan has materialized three steps away from him. At his pace, actually, he needs just _two_ steps.

"Celebrating a draw?" he grins, raising his glass in a mocking toast. "Something doesn't quite fit in this."

"Shut up, gypsy."

"You know I won't take orders from you." Bojan, quite annoyed all of a sudden, heads straight to one of the silky sofas of the private room they reserved at the club, and he becomes upset enough when he spots Zlatan lounging on the one next to him with a stupid smile on his face.

"Well, go taking orders from Mourinho, then" he yells, his voice dizzy because of the alcohol he swallowed down.

" _Touché_. I will, at the right time. And you?"

"What?"

"Will you take orders?"

"Forget it." Bojan empties the glass he took before he saw Zlatan, making all sort of faces because of the strength of the cocktail. "Not from you for sure. And neither from Mourinho or his old, new pet."

Zlatan blinks twice, surprised by the boy's realization: he doesn't know if Bojan knows because he finally called Pep – but he can doubt about this option and play everything but an euro on the fail – or because he finally called someone else (just as an example, Gerard has never been the quintessence of discretion, after all). Anyway, Zlatan underestimated Bojan already twice in his life, and he isn't the type repeating the very same errors over and over again.

"It's rude of you to call him like that."

"Look who's talking! You would cut _his_ cock with shears if you could do it without angering Mourinho! What the hell do you want from this conversation, Ibra? I'm not going to settle up with Pep, I'm happy as I am, I like Cote, I like dating people whenever I want and I don't care anymore about an asshole who cares about his cup collection more than the man he fucked in the last four years!"

"It's this who you think you are, mh, Bojan? _A man_? A man doesn't ignore forever his lover who's trying to apologize, and may God forgive me because I _hate_ to take Guardiola's side in this madness no matter what," Zlatan breathes out heavily those words, almost pushing them out of his throat by his own hands, "but you're acting less decently than the most childish boy I ever met!

"Fuck you, Ibra." Bojan tries to stand up from the sofa, but alcohol makes his head spin enough to make him follow the strain dragging him again on his seat, or sort of. Zlatan has almost ripped out his shirt to keep him there – a button has come off for sure and he wouldn't find it even if he were sober – and now Bojan lies on the Swede's knees, in an extremely uncomfortable position, trying to understand something.

Then Zlatan kisses him deeply, his tongue tasting like nutty liquor (sort of) and bitter and aggressive and _raging_ as he never tasted, and Bojan stops trying to understand anything until he backs off. If there was a thing Bojan could rule out from the list of the things _not happening forever and ever_ for sure, Zlatan interested in him was an idea belonging to the first ten of the list for sure, as well as one of the most dreadful.

"Why the hell did you do this?!" he yells, running his hand on his mouth and falling disastrously on his _oh-my-god-not-soft-as-it-should-be_ crotch as he tries to stand up again. "You don't even want to fuck me!"

"Who said this?"

Bojan is speechless. "You... you want Mourinho! You pestered the life out of everybody last year, _Zay this_ and _Zay that_ and _Zay's such a whore when we make out_ , you- shit, I drank too much."

"I don't have exclusive rights on Zay... neither he does." Bojan frowns: his explanation is so alike Pep's one that he can't help but be afraid of that insane, impossible and frightful parallelism. "Tell me you want to come to my place, and I will fuck you."

"It doesn't make sense at all. You talk about sex as some gymnastic! _Tell me to fuck you_... I won't even think to reply."

"Sex and sense sound differently in any language." Zlatan rolls to Bojan's sofa and kneels down in front of him. "Maybe you want to fuck here? It would be a funny twist."

"You're _out of mind_! They would catch us!"

"And you're not dismissing or refusing the idea."

Bojan opens his mouth, bewildered. Zlatan says the truth, he doesn't want him to undo his jeans and put a hand inside his underwear at least as much as he wants to, and even if his eyes are focused on the entrance of the room and his mind is paralyzed from both the fear to be caught being sucked by Zlatan and the pleasure his mouth is giving him, he can't deny the idea is not as disturbing as he thought.

Bojan comes too soon, drunkenness and Zlatan's skills winning easily over his resistances and frights, leaving the translucent mark of his orgasm on the side of his grinning mouth; he's not even sure to be still alive for how much he is stunned by the inacceptable development of the night, neither he's sure of the exact moment he felt Zlatan's hard cock barely fitting his hands.

With an impatient moan, Zlatan admits he has been taught good.

 

Jose awakes in his bed alone and dejected as he was when he fell asleep last night. Another draw isn't really what the team needed in this hard time, and he can't help but thinking it's his fault too, because he got sent off in the last game and so he couldn't be able to support his teammates.

Plus, he never thought it would have been so hard to stay away from Bojan: it's the first night they stay parted each other since the friend moved at his place, with the exceptions of training camps and away trips, and it has been uncomfortable as it never happened in the first days in that flat, spent all alone, sleeping on the couch with the TV and the console still on.

Bojan sent him just three texts last night: the first one reassures him as he's going to spend the night in Milan with Borriello and some other friends (Jose guesses, correctly, that homesickness extends to _discosickness_ in some desperate cases, and Marco's a desperate case even by standing still and quiet), the second one – at half past four in the morning – tells he's going to Malpensa as there's a fly to El Prat in two hours.

 _... wait, you're going home and LEAVE ME HERE?_

 _Sorry bb, I had to, I'll explain u when I come back. I'll redeem myself. ;)_

Jose doesn't need any more explanations. He had from Bojan more than he expected – more than he _deserved_ , actually, as he's just a confused boy who realized too late where his feelings were trying to direct him, while Bojan is... well, Bojan. Definition for him hasn't been invented yet, and his efforts have always declined in concepts and images worthy of the worst romantic novels ever printed.

However, they are the only way he can picture Bojan when he's not with him: he's the fire slowly burning his flesh and his mind, leaving his outward appearance intact; he's the innocent boy glowing red – as Jose does – every time they undress each other and they hide under the sheets, kissing and laughing, and he's the somewhat-slut (even if Jose would never use that word, not even in the filthiest fantasies) who showed him the most unexpected ways to enjoy pleasure. The warm touch of his tongue in the most unexpected parts of the body and the five ways to use a bandage he knows. The fast thrusts he imposes when he spreads his legs for Jose and the gentle touches and the subtle variations he propose when they switch positions. The sex toys he hides behind his back until it's too late to refuse to use them. The handcuffs. The vibrator that left Bojan worn-out for a whole afternoon. The evenings spent rubbing on each other without having sex, a delicious torture Jose has loved since the first time.

Jose has never fooled himself into dreaming to keep him for himself forever: Bojan has said little about what happened, but most of that is well-known since last summer in Denmark, and Jose found the last pieces of the puzzle before his first kiss to Bojan. Jose knows what's happening, he knows he can't do anything to stop him and avoid falling again into Guardiola's arms, but he also knows he won't do anything whatsoever: he just hopes Bojan doesn't get hurt again – _anymore_ – and he doesn't get hurt as well. Guardiola's a good manager and a nice person, and he has been a great player as well, a model for many defenders – well, for everything but bad temper, he guesses – but he knows nothing about his personals. And maybe Jose isn't even interested, as he feels already unfit enough as things stands now.

 _Here I am. C u tonight. Love u. <3_, says the new text on Jose's phone. He sighs, bothered by the itchy sensation that runs in all over his body, and he goes in the bathroom, suddenly in need to go out of that house and enjoy a solitary stroll in Rome.

 

Zlatan had not said a word since Bojan sneaked into his car, willing to take the first fly to Barcelona with no luggage or without having a shower or a snack first; actually, he didn't say anything since they went out of the _Hollywood_ after having sex on the sofas of the executive room, and, although they gave no meaning to that, they both couldn't ignore it happened. They talked there, still locked into a tangle of half-naked bodies and arms and legs, and they both admitted more than they were willing to. Then, Bojan felt the urgency to go back in Spain, at least for half a day, and Zlatan tried to give compensation for the childish, distorted, yet satisfying vengeance impulse he seconded by silently escorting him to the airport. When Bojan jumps out of the car with a "thanks", in fact, Zlatan just whispers an answer and an apology to his _bye_ , and he doesn't even know if Bojan heard them.

Zlatan turns off the car in the parking lot of the airport, but he doesn't get out of it for a while, neither he drives again the whole road to his villa; he taps for a while on the steering wheel, waiting until half an hour has passed, then he leaves with a screech of tires, goes straight for the Bergamo terminal and buys a ticket for Valencia. José's waiting for him when he arrives where they agreed to meet.

"You carry his smell on," he says, quietly waiting for Zlatan's answer.

"He hugged me."

"Before, after or while having sex in the _privé_?" José grins sarcastically, supporting his vain giggle. "Do you think we succeeded?"

"I hope so. Why should he had to come back to Spain just after _having sex in the privé with me_? And moreover, how could you know?"

"Proper reasons for such an unexplainable behavior would involve things the boy couldn't do, I suppose." José casts a deep sidelong glance to his lover, and this time the smile becomes broad and sincere. "And I won't tell you who are my spies. Want to do it?"

"... I'm tired, Zay."

"What?"

"I came here from the _Hollywood_ without even a shower... I just want to sleep with you."

"At nine o'clock in the morning? This is the most pathetic, useless and absurd justification I've ever heard." José manages to let him sneak into the Real hotel, somehow, as long as Zlatan has done laughing. Then, he manages to let him frantically beg for something more than a shower together.

 

 _When you're tired of aiming your arrows,  
Still you'll never hit the mark  
And even if your aims are shadows  
Still we never gonna part_

 

Bojan takes a cab at the entrance of El Prat as he did at least a hundred times in the last years: he has been away from home for just a bunch of weeks, so he isn't surprised to find everything as he remembers. It has been his home for such a long time, it's printed into his soul like a tattoo on his skin, and he can't act or feel differently. He won't, anyway.

He guesses right, for example, when thinking about where Pep could be on Sunday morning; so he goes straight for a table in the nearest café to his house, then he composes his number on the phone – easily, as he always pressed the ten numbered buttons to call him every weekend, without any effort to remember it or need to read it on the phone.

Pep answers immediately, but he doesn't say nothing: probably he's as panic-stricken as Bojan, but he's for sure not alone at home now, and he has to act as Bojan never decided to lift a wall between each other. So, he's the first to talk.

"Um, I'm here."

"Where?"

"At the place you taught me about chocolate" he answers. He has to wait just ten minutes, as Pep runs like hell the mile of road still dividing them; the man stops in front of him, expectation and _fear_ straining his body as much as the outstanding run he did, worthy as he has been as fast as Daniel.

"Don't say a thing," Bojan says softly, "I'm not sure I can-"

"I'm sorry, Boji."

"... it's what I was trying to say". Bojan signs a couple of photos before leaving and looking for a less-crowded, more intimate place to talk – a place oddly resembling Pep's garden, as _thank Godness_ Cristina isn't at home, as she brought the children to the grandparents. "I know you're sorry, Pep, but this is not going to change anything," he says, deepening his thoughts as they never got interrupted.

"Neither I want to. Just... let me... I can't." Pep breathes in, trembling with cold as the first clothes he could put on are too thin even for the warm Catalan autumn. "I treated you like shit."

"I would have said _package_."

"It's the same. I didn't meant to hurt you, I just wanted you to play every game of the league this year, as European championship and a permanent spot in the first-string and your first important contract... ah, never mind, you know everything of that. But I love you so much, Boji, I can't even think about letting you go again, because of my foolishness."

Bojan sighs, letting him stroke his cheek. "You tried to tell me that what you thought was the best. I can't say I'm pleased, but... you were right, after all. And I ran away without thinking about it."

"Don't try to take the blame of things I did."

"Not on your life."

Their kiss is the song that welcomes Bojan home, reverberating through his heart and down his spine until they both gasp for breath; he never forgot those kisses, but they taste different now – maybe because they were far from each other for so long, or because their feelings now are stronger than ever. Or maybe because they're doing it at Pep's place, and even if he doesn't look worried Bojan is frightened and excited at the idea of risking twice in two days to being caught while making out.

Pep almost rips both his clothes and Bojan's off, as desperate and hungry is his desire, and Bojan doesn't draw back when he sits on Pep, spreading his legs enough to feel his cock delving into him as much deeply as he can. Bojan couldn't say anymore where his body finished and Pep's one started, but he's quite sure it isn't a matter of the highest importance, it can't be like that when the man he always loved, and whom he just forgave forever for a sin he didn't want to commit, gets to the bottom of his knowledge, satisfying every single dirty wish among his secrets, making Bojan scream with him as one, holding Bojan tightly between the arms when he's close and he's being embraced and embracing at the same time, in the climax of their pleasure.

"There's something you want to tell me."

Bojan blushes shyly, his face hidden against Pep's chest. "Maybe. And you're going to do the same. How is Mourinho in bed?" he whispers with a naughty accent right on his skin, while brushing his nipple with the edge of his teeth.

"Quite similar to his usual self, I guess. Exasperating, pretentious, pretending he's always right. Domineering as we both like." Bojan lets his nipple go with a luscious smack. "And gentle, caring and just a bit rough."

"As we both like" Bojan states, and Pep laughs softly for that definition, before agreeing with a nod. "Have you had some fun, at least? I'd feel more guilty than ever, if you didn't."

"It's what I wanted to talk about. Well... Pep, do you love M-Mourinho?"

Pep breathes in, holding the air in his chest for a while before exhaling it in a sigh. "Yes."

"And-"

"I would, Boji. I would for you." He kisses his still sweaty forehead. "I could accept you love someone else... I'd suffer, but I'd go on, sooner or later. So, why should I forbid you to see him, whoever he is..."

"Cote."

"Valdés Díaz? Guess what, I can even approve your choice, he's a good boy."

"We didn't do that much, usually. We mostly just cuddled." Bojan moans all of a sudden, as a finger slips into his hole and he can't do nothing but feeling powerless as he feels it moving inside him. "I hate you when you start torturing me."

"You're complaining because I start playing with you with just the thumb?" he says astounded, sliding three fingers into Bojan's ass without any notice but an impatient gesture. "Little bastard."

"And I kept the best for last," he replies, moving his hips to meet Pep's fingers' thrusts and feel them digging deeper inside him. "Zlatan."

" _What?_ " Pep withdraws his hand only to hold Bojan's erection firmly. "Tell me you're kidding."

"I'm afraid not. I wanted to do that to spite you because I was just furious with you. And he wanted to do that... well, he didn't say why, but I guess it has quite much to do with some sweet, mild conversations you had in Barcelona a year and a half ago. He looked for some sort of vengeance, even if I'm almost sure he didn't manage to get what he wanted."

"I can't say I'm pleased," he snorts, eagerly awaiting for this conversation to end at once, "but I don't care."

"Fine, because it's not going to happen again," Bojan laughs, not as embarrassed as he should feel in his own convictions, but close to come for the second time in a row. "Forgive him, Pep. He's just too much proud of himself, but... _ah_..."

Bojan doesn't say anything useful for a while.

 

Bojan knocks feebly on the door, hoping Jose's not already sleeping on the couch all alone as his usual: his wish is granted, as Jose's just a little numb as he was _almost_ asleep, but he heard Bojan's knocks in time to let him spend this night indoors.

"I'm home, Cote" he just says, offering an apologetic smile in which he tries to put everything at once, making Jose just a little more dazed than he already his. Then he smiles back, his heart jumping a little higher and faster than before, and while stepping aside he just says to Bojan: "Welcome back".

There's room for Jose too, in Bojan's heart and mind: he can feel it by the way they're kissing, both innocent and hungry as the first day. That's definitely enough, and Jose suddenly feels he _deserves_ it.

He doesn't need to run away.

 

~

 **END NOTES & REFERENCES SHEET**

• First of all: thank you, Liz, thank you for everything.

• _His body said "Yes" even before his lips did, and José looked at him with a questioning, yet curious and amused glance._ First official photo of them at Inter depicts Zlatan with... a boner. [Not kidding](http://www.inter.it/aas/img/107724.jpg).

• _He's considering the idea since he called Jose a couple of hours later than the time he tried to go to bed, asking him for hospitality._ Bojan and Cote live together, share the same car and go together to the training. Oops.

• _And I'll kill you if you ever try to drag me in a threesome._ I took inspiration from [this infamously famous moment](http://i.imgur.com/rguVF.jpg) for the whole thing about Zlatan unwillingly excited by some fantasies. I'm sorry, but I just have to ask you to look at a certain crotch again.

• _"You cost me five hundred euros for this call out of hours. What's going on?"_. Press conference post-Osasuna, 2011. [this video](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pDYS-ykr8lI) (8:00). After he disconnected the call, he said, "If it happened in my team's presence, I would have been fined for 500€".

• No matter what happened between Zlatan and Pep, but the Swedebitch has [always](http://www4.pictures.zimbio.com/gi/Bojan+Krkic+Zlatan+Ibrahimovic+Villarreal+RFEF-vLfpQUl.jpg) [cared](http://i.imgur.com/EJ9Pe.jpg) for Bojan. [Proof](http://i.imgur.com/BMwN0.gif) because it actually happened.

• About the Mourinho/Guardiola (as there's never too much love for this pairing). José worked at Barcelona for four years (1996-2000) as translator, athletic trainer and assistant manager for Sir Bobby Robson (whose death is never too much lamented *getting emotional*). And he was quite [well-acquainted](http://i.imgur.com/P0bkP.png) with Pep, [if I can say so](http://defelicious.tumblr.com/post/10447020323/i-needed-to-save-this-somewhere-or-i-would-have). They both competed for the job of Barcelona coach (at least according to the press and the later gossip from ex-officers) in 2008, after the end of Rijkaard's cycle, and later José stated that Guardiola was and had always been the right choice for the job. Now that José's Real Madrid first-team coach, they spend every _Clàsico_ in the same way: swearing at each other in annoying terms in the pregame weeks (causing, along with Tumblr drama, my deep hate for the match itself: you can't figure my irritation for the _five Clàsicos_ , last year), touching and eye-fucking in [very](http://defelicious.tumblr.com/post/10649503013) [subtle](http://defelicious.tumblr.com/post/14032868540/si-acquieta) [ways](http://i.imgur.com/0TZho.jpg) [I mean](http://i.imgur.com/3NGY9.jpg) [GOD BLESS](http://i.imgur.com/ZRT1n.jpg) [THEM](http://i.imgur.com/IYSOt.jpg) when the match times come, making peace a week or two after the game. And yes, I really mean Pep plays as José's pet: [your arguments are invalid](http://i.imgur.com/wHyyF.jpg).

• About the Mourinho/Ibrahimović (as it's a quite popular pairing in Italy, but not much elsewhere). What should I say, apart from quoting José's own words? _If chairman Moratti is thinking about selling Ibrahimovic for 5 million Euros, or even 10, well, I can buy him!_ I've already summarized their year together at Inter (2008/09) in a [mini](http://img294.imageshack.us/img294/3884/picspam013.jpg) [picspam](http://img203.imageshack.us/img203/204/picspam012.jpg) [on my own](http://img405.imageshack.us/img405/7088/picspam011.jpg). The autobiography he just published, however, is even... more ambiguous. (If you're wondering about it: it's crap to the nth power. Don't buy it. I'm very pleased I didn't have to spend money to read it.)  
 _Mourinho is a big star… He's cool. The first time he met [my partner] he whispered to her: "Helena, you have only one mission. Feed Zlatan, let him sleep, keep him happy!". The guy says what he wants. I like him._ / _I liked him instantly, it was like a spark. We understanded each other._ / _We often argued like that. He filled me with pride, and then he sank me. [...] I just hated his face when we played. For how much amazing goals I made, he was always cold as ice. [...] I thought: "In any case... I will shake him, even if it would cost me a miracle. Somehow I will force that man to rejoice for something done by me!"._  
But more of all, the Farewell Conversation of Doom.  
 _I remember when we met at the hotel the day after my last match. He approached me.  
"You can't leave!" he said.  
"Sorry, but I have to take this chance."  
"But if you leave, I'll leave, too."  
How could you answer to such a thing?  
"Thank you," I said, "You taught me a lot."  
We chatted a moment alone, it was great. But that man... he is like me. He's proud, he wants to win at any price, he can't help but acting like this. He got in a dig at me, too.  
"Hey, Ibra!"  
"What?"  
"You're going to Barça to win the Champions, huh?"  
"Yeah, maybe a little of that, too."  
"You know, we're going to win it for us, don't forget this. We'll win the cup" he said, and then he said goodbye to me._  
If you're wondering: no, it isn't a fan fiction. At least, it's the _official_ fan fiction. HA.

• About the Guardiola/Ibrahimović grudge. Again, from Zlatan's ~~fan fiction~~ autobiography. _Mourinho is Guardiola’s opposite. If Mourinho brightens up the room, Guardiola pulls down the curtains and I guessed that Guardiola now tried to measure himself with him._  
Summary of the previous episodes: Zlatan left Inter for Barça in 2009. Inter got the Treble (\O/) after kicking out Barça in the CL semi-final, and Barça just wins another Liga after completing the Sextuple with the national and European Supercups, and the FIFA World Cup. Zlatan does absolutely _nothing_ in the semi-final matches, apart from bitching back and forth on the pitch until Pep subbed him in both the matches. After that, Pep prefers Bojan to him in the last matches of the league, and, according to Zlatan, they don't talk to each other anymore. Now Pep doesn't want to cite him unless forced by press, Rosell talks about Zlatan as the worst deal in the history of Barça, and Zlatan never calls Pep by name, as he has nicknamed him "the Philosopher".  
Verified that Pep definitely has a problem with _number nines_ players (Ronaldinho, Eto'o, Henry, Ibra, and then Bojan. Who's the next, boss? Alexis or Villa, or both? We're waiting for usual Barça summer sales), I don't believe to Zlatan's words, either. No one can blame just one of them for such a big problem. Still, it could have [worked](http://i.imgur.com/LCt2l.jpg) among them, as Pep always loved much his _number nines_ before agreeing to selling them for a fraction of their value.

• I'm not going to talk about the history of Bojan/Cote (their Twitter accounts are self-explaining, I guess) or Pep/Bojan (a little surf to your old friend Google Images would help you if you don't know their story) in this place.

• Title and lyrics from _Don't Let It Break Your Heart_ (Coldplay).

• Thank you in advance for your time and for any comment or critique you'll eventually leave! If you have any questions, feel free to ask.


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